Soliloquy

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Soliloquy

I have murdered memory; I have watched the moment die. These hands have wavered far too long above the blank expectancy of pages; worlds of words were born and ended in my immobile fingertips, starved of the sanguine nourishment of inks.

I have murdered memory, the many curves and hollows of your face, the crimson compression of your lips have been worn by my mind’s fervent eye, blurred into the cold expression of an angel enduring centuries assaulted by the rain. Could I have caught the look of unspent longing, pulse hammer pain, in the perfection of a poem? Could I have preserved the passion wild, wanton and evident against the wrath of time?

I have watched the moment die; observed the pinnacle of crisis, pen poised and paused. Pregnant with hope, anticipation. A declarative drop waiting to be spilled foolscap and fulsome. I tapped the nib back on the well and watched the moment die.

I have murdered memory and all my weary impotence will not restore the icon I would stitch into my shroud, or the flowing script of murmurings, the recollection of a touch.

Am I cowardly or cruel for I have watched the moment die? The reams of everything I left unwritten cupped in these hands that clasped, caressed, and claimed you. Boldly, careless of consequence. But when thirst tore rabid at your throat, eating promises and protestations, I stood by with water, and I watched the moment die.

I have murdered memory, forgetting the glorious fragrance of your black rain sodden hair, sunlight reflected and refracted in your tears, the enveloping warm welcome: softness everywhere.

Traitor to desire, betrayer of my pen, breaker of vows, I have watched the moment die as surely as the hands that hovered, waiting above a wounded heart, trembling and incapable to staunch the stuttered flow.

So go. Go roaring and ungentle, plaintiff in the wide halls of our judgement, crack the weathered stone that stills your tongue, and come bind my hands, still black with blood, swollen with weight of all I’ve left unspoken. I make no last defence. I have murdered memory; I have watched the moment die.

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